


Love Changes A Man

by MooseFeels



Series: Five for Fifteen Hundred [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Pastoral, Sheep, Werewolf Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel's a werewolf, but it's okay. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He lives out in the middle of nowhere, the land curving out in front of his house like a great drape caught in the wind. The grass grows green and lavender nests in the drier soils. Rolls out and away from the world, mountains just visible in the distance.  Flanked by the rushing river on one side and shouldered by woods on another, the nearest highway is a rugged fifteen mile drive north and the nearest town is a solid three hours. It’s damn near uninhabited this far out, just Castiel and his animals.

He raises the the healthiest sheep in this hemisphere, this he knows. They’re sheep, so they’re about as happy as they can be, but they give good milk and fine wool and pretty good lamb in the spring. They follow where he leads them on the four wheeler. He’d love to keep dogs, but he can’t. He tried, once, but it didn’t end well. Ended with a shotgun and a cross in the background he can’t talk about, not with anyone who would swing by to buy wool or cheese. His farm isn’t that big- the house, the barns, the garage, the gardens. It’s huge for just himself, but that’s okay.

Castiel goes into town maybe twice a month, but usually only once. He grabs lunch at the diner, grabs fruit he can’t raise himself and vegetables that his soil won’t support. Salt and sugar and flour and cows milk and butter. Maybe picks up a few books from the library, if he wants to. Smiles at the people who smile at him.

There are some women in town, he knows, who think of him as being some lone shepherd, some romantic figure out on the land who reads deep books and write poems and sings songs to himself. Someone they can shape into a husband, someone they can make smile with their soft bodies and long hair and sweet voices. Wives for a farm, wives with a stoic and sensitive husband and beautiful children with his dark hair and blue eyes.  And maybe they were right, once, maybe he could have wanted them.  Thing is, though, Castiel shouldn’t have people in his life. He should live alone. He’s tried, once or twice, but it hasn’t ended well. He should have known better.

He’s a monster, but he’s okay with that. Really.

Once a month, he moves his sheep into the other barn. The smaller one built of silver nails. He closes the door and closes the lock with heavy leather gloves on his hands. He leaves a note on the kitchen counter, the same note every time.

I’m sorry. I meant to come back. Please take care of them for me. Please don’t tell my brothers or my sisters. Please sell my property and give the money to the school. Name something after me- I’m vain.

Leaves his clothes on the back porch and walks away from the highway and towards the woods. Waits, shivering, until the moon comes up.

He doesn’t tend to remember much after that. Just waking up in the same place every time.

He’s drawn to it, like magnetic north. The place in front of the river. Right where he had been camping, right where he had been hiking. Out alone.

If he’d known (and how could he have known, really?) he would have worn silver.

It’s a morning in late February when he wakes up and marches through the cold across the land and back towards home.

He doesn’t drink the river water (even though his mouth feels disturbingly furry and deery and bloody). He just rubs his naked arms as he walks as fast as he can the mile or so back home. In the opposite direction of the great stripe of churned turf that streaks out away from where he woke up like skid marks.

He’s shivering (February in Montana is cold, no matter how much adrenaline is in your system) and moving as fast as he can when his house comes into view, his barn comes into view, and a car comes into view.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Oh- oh no.”

It’s a long, black car. One he’s never seen before, and he’s always been quite careful to catalogue the vehicles he’s seen in town. This is new and new is bad.

A tall man steps out of the car. Long brown hair. Badly fitting black suit.

He looks at Castiel, as close as eye-to-eye as he can get at this distance and says easily, despite the distance, “Not many people build two barns, especially ones with silver nails.”

“Shit,” Castiel hisses.

He freezes. Spreads out his legs to shoulder width and raises his hands to the sky. “Look,” he calls. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

The guy holds his own hands up. “No, dude,” he calls. “It’s fine. Not gonna hurt you. Just wanna talk. Promise.”

Castiel looks at him. He looks at his barn and his house. He can’t get to the barn fast enough, and even if he could, his rifle is in his safe in the house and it’s not even loaded. And he’s naked.

He marches up to the house.

The guy is even taller this close, towers a good five inches over his head or something. If he didn’t have all of his clothes on and look so well rested, Castiel would be damn sure he was a monster, too. He holds two cups of coffee. The smell of them makes him want to vomit.

“I’m Sam,” he says. Castiel walks on by, strides into his house, leaving the door open. “I’m kind of a lawyer, actually- see, there are all of these people out there who might be interested in, well, in killing you but-”

“You gonna kill me?” Castiel asks behind himself.

“No,” Sam answers, slipping inside. Shutting the door behind himself. “No, see, I want to make a directory or a database of people like you who aren’t...out of control or anything so you don’t get hurt. I want to make sure you have your rights and-”

“Great,” Castiel replies. “Whatever this is, can it wait until after I’ve showered and had some real sleep?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no problem.”  
“Great,” Castiel continues. “Please come back tomorrow. You should know that the day after moonrise is kind of shit for werewolves.”

He turns to look at Sam. Hopes he looks every bit his sleepless night, his adrenaline crash, his near frostbite, his cuts and bruises and scars and dark circles under the eyes and twigs in his hair.

Sam has the decency to blush. “Sorry,” he says. “I’ll be by tomorrow. Sorry. I’m still- I’m still figuring this out, I guess.”

He leaves. Shuts the door behind himself.

Castiel doesn’t move until he hears the car drive off, the engine a heavy roar down the gravel road that leads out into his property. He slinks upstairs to shower.

His muscles ache. His skin hurts. His head hurts. His lungs hurt. He hurts all over, hell, even his hair hurts. It comes from stretching out and bending back into himself. It comes from letting something of the truth of himself out and then crushing it back in.Of forcing shapes and forms. Bending and breaking and popping and squeezing.

He put a curtain in front of the mirror a long time ago. He doesn’t like to look at himself, not after what happened and especially not after the moonrise.

His scars are on his face, heavy ghost-white lines under his left eye and on his cheek. Remarkably shallow, really. Not nearly as bad as it could have been.

He has to remind himself sometimes. Not nearly as bad as it could have been.

The water is hot on his back and shoulders, cards through his hair and rinses off dirt and mud and grime.

He feels like he breathes for the first time in a week, under the warm spray. He doesn’t even use soap, almost too exhausted to stand. Waiting for it all to happen is almost as bad as it happening.

He climbs out of the shower and walks to his bedroom. He marks his calendar with a red circle. Dries off and lays down in his bed. He closes his eyes.

He feels the shape of last night in his mind. The chase. The run. The ground underneath himself. The snap of skin and bones in his mouth. The taste of blood and fur.

So overwhelming, he leans over and vomits into the trash can by his nightstand.

Castiel’s done this enough now that he has it down to a science.

He falls asleep. There’s enough food for the day in the barn for the sheep.

Tomorrow’s going to take care of itself. The guy in the car, he’ll take care of that tomorrow. He’ll take care of all of it tomorrow. Today, though, today he has to sleep.

He dreams of the moonlight.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel doesn't see hide nor hair of the lawyer for about a week, and then one morning, when he's sitting on the porch and drinking his coffee the big black car rumbles back up his drive.

It's mid-spring, and the lambs that were meant for slaughter have already gone. Winter wool will be shaved in the coming weeks, so for now all he does is put his wooly sheep out to pasture to graze. Soon after shearing, he'll thin out his herd at auction and then he can start milking again, make cheese through the summer.

He lives far enough north that despite the season, it's still cool and crisp in the mornings. His breath hangs like cigarette smoke on the air and he's still in his heavy woolen barn coat.

Castiel keeps a knife on his belt, sharp and cruel. The handle is wrapped in dark leather. The blade is edged in silver. His hand rests over it and he can feel the poison of it seeping out of the thick cover, the threat of it.

The tall lawyer clambers out holding two cups of coffee, a briefcase, and a bakery bag. "Hi," he greets. "Is now...better?"

Castiel lets his hand remain on his belt, right near that knife. "As good a time as any," he answers.

The lawyer lopes up the steps, smiles a little nervously. "Here," he says. "I guess you have your own, but uh...it's a good idea to bring these things along, especially this early."

"Sam, yes?" Castiel asks, taking the second cup.

He nods. "Yeah," he says. "And you're Castiel Novak, yes?"

Castiel nods. "Yes, that's me. What do you want?"

"So, uhm," he says, scratching the back of his head. "I'll be honest with you- I mean you already know that I already know that you're-"

"I'm a werewolf, Sam, don't beat about the bush," he interrupts, sighing. "More to the point, what do you want?"

Sam's eyes cast downward momentarily, a little guilty. "So I'm sure you know about...hunters," he says.

Castiel closes his eyes. He leans back such that his head rests against the paneling of his house. "What, do they send lawyers before they kill people now?" he asks.

Sam huffs a bitter laugh. "No, not really," he answers. "See, I grew up...hunting. And I left it to go to college and then law school and the thing is, you're a...you're a werewolf but you're not a monster. You have rights and I want to- I'd like to start representing people- people like you." He pauses and looks at Castiel. "I have contacts in the hunting community still," he says. "And the thing is, I can get the word out that you're not a threat and you're not going to hurt anyone. I can help you with legal counsel and-"

"Not interested," Castiel interrupts. His voice is gruff and heavy in the cold spring air. Sam the lawyer's cheeks are flushed a little with the crispness of the morning.

"You're- you're not interested?" Sam asks.

"Look," Castiel says, "all I want is to keep a low profile." He takes a sip of the coffee the lawyer has brought- it has cream and sugar, more than what he usually has. It's heavy. "I don't want anyone to talk to me, I don't want some sort of support network, I don't want phonecalls or counsel. I want peace and quiet and healthy sheep and that's it. I keep my head down-"

"Look, man, I'm all about respecting your choices and everything but the cat's already out of the bag," Sam interrupts. "I found you. I wasn't even looking to kill you and I found you. Reports from park rangers in the area about wildlife deaths in the area, hospital records, and purchase orders for silver nails from your local hardware store. It wasn't hard." He continues. "It wasn't hard at all."

"Are you threatening me?" Castiel hisses, and his grip settles and little tighter on that knife.

"No, I'm making sure you understand where the cards lay," he responds. "It doesn't matter who you have or haven't hurt  to a lot of them, the fact that you're around makes you dangerous- that's enough for them to justify killing you."

"So you want to tell all of them where I am?" He shouts.

"I want to help you establish a contractual agreement with the community such that if you or your property is harmed, there are real consequences for those actions," Sam replies calmly.

"How can you guarantee that the people who would shoot first would listen to your contract?" Castiel bites out. "Seems like there are some holes there."

"How do you enforce any law?" He says. "Consequences." He sighs. "Right now, you're open. You're exposed. The worst thing that could come of you working with me? Nothing. Six months from now some asshole with rounds full of silver buckshot comes for you in your bed and you die. Best thing? Any hunters who might be tempted would be dissuaded by being cut out of the community. No access to the libraries, to the phone numbers, to the fakes- none of it. "

"And the people who run these networks," Castiel says, "they agree to this?"  

Sam nods.

His suit is slightly too small for him- a little narrow across his shoulders and short in his arms. It doesn't button and he doesn't look like he knows how to tie a necktie- it hangs a little unevenly from his neck.

He's a few years younger than Castiel, something bright and fresh on his skin, in his eyes.

"How many other people like me have you gotten to agree to this?" he asks.

Sam bites his lip. Smiles a little- almost pained.

"Well, if this all works out, you would be the first," he replies.

Castiel huffs a short laugh, barely more than a breath. "Kid," he mutters, "you've gotta be fuckin' with me."

Castiel runs his hands through his hair.

"Look," he says, "I've got a day's work ahead of me. Sheep need to be taken to the right place to graze, I need to start shearing soon, and I need to talk to a vet. You're staying in town right?"

Sam nods.

"Great," he says. "Look, come back for dinner, we'll talk more then. This isn't a yes or a no, but it's...I need to think through some stuff and you need to get a better pitch together."

Sam smiles again- it seems to come reflexively to him. "Alright," he says. "I can work with that. What time should I be here?"

Castiel shrugs. "I don't fuckin' know," he says. "Six?"

Sam nods. "I'll bring paperwork. You'll want to sign some."

He dashes off the porch.

"Cocky son of a bitch," Castiel mutters, watching him go. He sees the car go down the drive and he shakes his head.

He sets the coffee cups inside and heads out to the barn.

He's got a lot to do today.

* * *

 

Dean's sorting through information, swinging between cases, when he finds it- a town in Montana.

In the past four years there have been monthly, unexplained wildlife kills that look like wolves- no new wolf count in the area, though. An accident- a bear attack by a river right before the wildlife kills started. And maybe most damning of all- a rancher who keeps buying silver nails from the hardware store.

He smirks.

It's perfect. He knows just what this is.

He comes down the stairs with his notebook, laptop, and duffel bag and Missouri says gruffly from her study, "Where in the hell you think you going, boy?"

Dean pauses in front of the doorway to the study. "Montana," he answers. "Werewolf. Doesn't look like a pack."

Missouri has serious eyes- she's always looked at Dean like that but it doesn't make him squirm anymore. Not after she gave it to him everyday for six months after he showed up on her doorstep with his shoulder out of his socket and a concussion so bad it was a miracle he could make it to her house.

It's a miracle he's alive at all, really.

She looks back down at the book she's reading. "And what are the rules, before you go?"

Dean rolls his eyes and sighs.

"You roll your eyes like that and I'm gonna treat you like the little boy you're pretending to be," she murmurs.

"Call you when I get there," Dean says. "Stay at hotels that don't have mold or roaches or skeevy owners. Take my meds. Don't hustle unless I absolutely have to. No uh...no funny business."

Missouri looks up at him. She raises an eyebrow.

"I won't," Dean swears. "I didn't-"

"I trust you," she says.

Dean knows she means it. Missouri doesn't say shit she doesn't mean, however stern and severe she might be sometimes.

She's the only family Dean has left.

Dean nods at her.

He grabs the keys from the kitchen drawer.

He heads out towards Montana.


	3. Chapter 3

The ground is a little uneven under his feet, but the trail was well built and in the cold air of early March, it freezes his skin, forces the pores closed and makes his body feel tight and close and strong.  
Sam loves a good run; it makes him feel clear and strong and real. It makes him feel like he's in control, at the end of the day.  
Sam likes control.  
The trees wrap around the trail. They are still sparse, lacking new growth. It is still early in the season, and they are not yet budding, just beginning to change the shade of brown-grey they are in that way that signals that deep inside of them, life is beginning to come back to the surface. Moss clings to the trees and to the path; sticks and leaves crunch underfoot. Sam runs on, his heartbeat staying steady like a drum under his skin. He breathes, feels the cold air go deep inside of him. He feels it flood him.  
What are you doing? Wanders through his mind.  
He rounds a bend and the trails places him back into the town where he's staying. It's tiny, in the way that towns in landlocked states can be like nowhere else. It's only an independent community from the county seat (forty miles away) because there's a post office here. The post office is just across the street from the house where Sam's staying- a rental he found online. It's not a far walk from the nearest grocery store, and between the two is a couple of tourist trap-y ice cream shops and gift stores. There's a library up on a hill about fifteen miles from here, a little farther than he would like to run, but he can if he needs to. He walks, cooling down, to the house and opens the door. He slams it behind himself as he pulls off his shirt and shoes and pants, climbing into the shower. It's four thirty now, and it's about a forty-five minute drive to the farm, where Castiel lives.  
God, Sam hopes he signs the paperwork. He's been looking for the right people, for proof that this can work. He was hopeful for a while-- some vampires in Missouri, a couple of witches in Maine-- but things liked to change.  
God, Sam hopes this works.  
This has to work.  
This needs to work.  
This has to work.  
-  
Castiel stretches as he walk out of the barn and into the house. It's still early enough in the season that the sun goes down early, which means that his days working are short. As summer sweeps through, he'll be working later and later, but for now he can head back into the house at about five, to start dinner.  
He put some venison from earlier in the year in the sink to thaw, and by now it's more or less ready to use. He pulls a bottle of red wine from his windowsill, just old enough that it can' t be used properly for drinking but is just right for cooking. He ducks into his pantry and pulls out a bag of dried cherries along with an onion and a bottle of olive oil. He's got some new potatoes from the grocery store; he'll set them up on the stove to cook with salt in the water; enough to leave them ashen across their surface from the accretion of mineral. There's some mixed greens in the fridge; a salad will have to suffice as a vegetable.  
The roast comes together fairly quickly, and he tosses the pan into the oven to finish cooking with enough time to spare that he can shower again and pull the smell of sheep and labor off of his flesh.  
He can feel the waning of the moon in his blood, in his bones. He feels more in control, more human, more real in days like this. He also gets tired so much more easily. He yawns, expressively, before putting on a pot of coffee to brew and running a towel through his hair. It's messy; messier than it used to be. He doesn't comb it as often as he used to.  
He throws on a shirt and some pants and waits and waits and waits.  
The lawyer is going to come back. Castiel can feel it surely inside of his bones. The kid has a mission, and if he wasn't going to be gone the first time, he'll not be driven off tonight.  
He tries not to let his hands shake. All day, he's wondered if this has actually been some kind of elaborate trap. He's no fool- he knows that there's people out there who hunt people like him. He knew before the kid even got here. There used to be a few people he talked to online, people he wrote letters to. They dried up, though, and it's kept him up, some nights, wondering.  
Is that kid going to burst through his kitchen door and kill him? Leave his body here in the house, his sheep to starve?  
Castiel waits.  
A knock comes on his door at about six fifteen, right as the roast is finished resting and the potatoes have come out of the water to cool. Castiel opens the door and there the kid stands, looking a little unreal in his suit and tie, still a little too small on his wide, tall frame.  
The kid smiles, blushes a little, and holds up his briefcase and a bottle of wine.  
Castiel raises an eyebrow at the wine.  
"I didn't want to be rude and I couldn't find anywhere in town that sold flowers and-"  
"For the love of Christ, kid, it's a meeting, not a date," Castiel says by way of greeting, opening the door a little more to let the kid in. "Do you eat meat?"  
The kid nods, a little anxiously.  
"It's just venison," Castiel says. "Someone in town passed it my way. It's good, I promise."  
Castiel pulls a knife from the block and makes a long, steady cut to slice the roast into pieces. "Please," he says. "Take a seat."  
"Thank you," the kid says, "for letting me- for hearing me out." There's a pause, as if the kid is looking for the right words, the right idea. He can't be more than twenty one; young and nervous at his table. "I know that this is- that this is risky for you. You're not the first person I've talked to about this."  
"Why didn't the others agree?" Castiel asks.  
There's a longer pause this time, and Castiel listens to it through the sound of plating the food.  
"Some of them wanted to stay off grid- no life in town, no phone line, no email, no contact. There was a vampire cell I ran into that preferred it that way. They found it easier to resist temptation that way. I only found them because I'd heard about them from a friend of a friend of a friend and I'm a half-decent tracker."  
Castiel sits down at the table, placing the food in front of Sam. The kid picks up his fork and pushes it around the plate for a moment before he takes a bite and continues. "And others, as soon as I found them, they just left. Transience isn't weird in these communities and there wasn't much to keep them there. The stray witches here and there, a few other werewolves. And some of them, something happened." Sam pauses again. "I misread- I misread what was there. I almost got hurt. I got out, though and-"  
"And you sicc'd your boys on them, eh?" Castiel asks.  
The kid flushes, looks uncomfortable. "I didn't- I didn't want to. I never want to- you don't-"  
"How do I know you don't have a gun in that jacket?" Castiel asks. "Or a series of poisons in that bag? Collodial silver, I've heard, is a favorite of your people against people like me. Sticks like a hot-sugar burn but burns twice as much. Right down to the bone. What about wolfsbane or-"  
"We only killed when they placed other people and a greater community at risk," he interrupts, his voice loud but steady. "When it became clear that they would not continue to live there without hurting the people around them or killing them- you have to believe me. You have to-"  
"Why should I?" Castiel asks.  
There's another pause.  
The kid pushes his plate away from himself. Runs his hands through his hair for a moment and says, "My brother and I grew up on the road, hunting people like you. Dad had trouble with shades-of-grey-thinking. You were either human or you were a monster, and if you were a monster, you deserved to die."  
The kid sighs for a long moment. He closes his eyes and clear his throat, as if lost in a recollection. "I was sixteen. Something bit my brother- something bad. Dad and I, we get out of the building, and I'm about to head back in- back into the nest, to get at what was there, to get Dean and Dad...Dad pulls out a bottle of motor oil and a rag and just...it had been a factory. It went up fast, too fast for me to do anything. He held me, for a few minutes- I tried to break free, to get to him, but he had to knock me out eventually."  
The kid clears his throat again.  
"I left, when I came to. Worked a little, here and there to keep it together, and then I went to school and...and yeah. Here...here I am," he says.  
Castiel looks at the kid for a long. Looks at the honesty, written on his features, on his face and body.  
"I still need to think," Castiel says.  
"Okay," Sam answers.  
"I don't have a dessert prepared," Castiel says.  
"Okay," Sam answers.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam takes a tupperware full of leftover potatoes and venison from Castiel, who insists.    
“I have to think over this,” he says. “Bring the tupperware back in a couple of days and we’ll talk some more.”

Sam nods. “I get it,” he says. “I get that this isn’t risk free for you, really. I do.”

Castiel nods, expressively. He looks worn out, absolutely bushed. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, and he shuts the door.

Sam trots the short distance out to his car. Opens the door and sits in the driver’s seat for a long, solid minute.

He can still smell it, under his nose. The burning oil. The scorched...the hair. The flesh. 

The  _ screams.  _

Sam remembers this with the absolute clarity that he remembers the pain of the cut on his face and arm and the black eye he woke up with the next day. 

This memory, it hangs onto him like a shadow. Can’t shake it. Lives in his dreams. 

Sam remembers this. 

And he should have guessed, that he would ask about this. That he would want to know. But he didn’t-- he didn’t realize that it would dig him so thoroughly back into that memory.

He takes a deep, steadying breath. Remembers that thing his therapist told him, about being Present.

“I’m here,” he says. 

He turns on the radio, softly, lets whatever CD he’s left in the player filter into the cab. Looks up at the house for a moment more. 

The lights in the house are still lit, and the windows look out like wide, yellow eyes into the night. A light winks out as he looks at the house, and a curtain is drawn over another.

He backs out of the drive and heads back into town.

* * *

It’s more than twenty hours of driving, from Missouri’s to this town where the werewolf is, so Dean brings his tent and sleeping back and sleeps out one night while on the road. Cheaper than a hotel room that’s nice and the fresh air is good for him. He can lay a pretty good line of rock salt on his ground cover, and when it’s dry like it is now, it affords the general security he really wants and doesn’t get into the dirt too bad; not any more than someone with a home ice cream churner would.

He doesn’t even bother pitching the tent this night; he just lays out the ground cover and his sleeping pad with his bag. Lays out and looks at whatever stars he can see out here in one of the Dakotas, which because the Dakotas are the BFE even in comparison to  _ Kansas _ , turns out to be a fuckton of stars. He knows the fresh air is good for him. Doesn’t make him feel cagey or trapped.

He falls asleep under the stars and gets up when the sun comes up. Decamps and hits the road again, for another ten hours of driving our so.

He rolls into the town midday, and he’s surprised by how idyllic it is. Dean knows as well as anyone that towns like these gather more  _ human _ monsters than they do other kinds; knows all about the white power meetings and militia bullshit that happens. The middle of nowhere is as good for secrecy as a closed door in a city, and it’s easy, this far West, this far North, to find yourself in trouble you didn’t account for. 

Most of his time has been spent in those kind of communities, so the bright and cheerful main street surprises him. A mom and pop grocery store beside a bakery beside a local library. Down a ways, local restaurants and a couple of clothing stores. 

He stops in front of a diner to grab lunch (patty melt) and then walks the three or four blocks down the street to a huge, beautiful victorian house that declares itself a bed and breakfast.

He takes out his phone and snaps a picture of it; sends it to Missouri. She'll be thrilled, he knows, that he's not only supporting a local economy but that the place looks like it hasn't heard that prohibition was repealed. He walks in, and sitting at the front desk is a woman with long dark hair and a wicked, uneven smile. 

"You lookin' for a bed?" She asks, and her voice is low and mischievious. 

Dean feels himself flush, in spite of himself.   "How much per night?" He asks, trying to diffuse this, to stop the blush from spreading further through himself. 

The grin spreads a little wider, and she pulls out some paperwork for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short; there will be more soon.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel is at the grocery store when he sees Sam again.  
He's perusing the olive oil idly, looking for something rich and fragrant to put on popcorn, when there, on the extremely limited organic dry goods aisle, he encounters him.  
Sam looks up from the package of fruit leather he's industriously studying and smiles, between cautious and friendly.  
"Uh," he says, "hi, Cas-"  
"Hello, Sam," Castiel greets. "How are you?"  
Sam shrugs. "Glad I rented a house with a kitchen, honestly. I can only eat so much diner food."  
Castiel finds himself glancing habitually to Sam's other hand, which holds a cup of coffee.  
"Diner coffee doesn't count, okay," Sam says, gesturing to it lightly.  
Castiel nods. "Of course," he says. "I'm not sure anyone can really burn it at home the same way."  
Sam smiles. Tosses the fruit leather in a hand basket. "Have you put anymore consideration-"  
"I have," he says. "Please, bring the papers by this evening. I will want to read them over with you and discuss their content."  
"Really?" He exclaims. "You mean it- that- that would be great! I'll bring coffee."  
Castiel smiles. Grabs a bottle of oil and swings through the butcher on the way out of the store to grab some buffalo, for shepherd's pie. 

* * *

  
Dean takes out his pillcase and takes a picture of the empty slot. Swallows the six pills in the AM section and drinks a full glass of water. Takes a picture of his room and his key for paying for it. Puts it in his wallet and puts his wallet in his breast pocket, where it always goes.  
Dean doesn't carry a pistol every day anymore. Everything about it made him feel worse; spent so much time remembering and reminding if it was loaded, if the safety was on, if he had it on him or in the room that mostly it distracted instead of aiding. He only takes it with him when he knows he'll use it.  
This is something Missouri helped him with.  
Ten minutes later, as he's reading over his notes about the area and what's almost certainly hiding here, he checks his phone, to make sure he's taken his pills.  
Twenty minutes later, a reminder goes off on his phone, and he calls Missouri.  
"Did you get in safe?" She asks.  
"Yep," he answers. "Got all my toes and everything. I'm supposed to have nine, right?"  
"Foolish boy," she comments. "You eat yet?"  
"Nope," he says. "Reading my notes. Getting ready to leave my room."  
"Do you have your key?" She asks.  
Dean takes his wallet out of his pocket and checks.  
"Yep," he says. "Put it in my wallet."  
"You gonna call me tomorrow?"  
"Did you help me set a dinger, to remind me?" He asks.  
"Yes," she answers.  
"Well, okay then," Dean says. "I'll take notes and keep you informed. I promise. I remember the important stuff."   
"Dean, honey, remembering if you took your daily anticonvulsant or not seems pretty important to me," she says.  
"I remember where you live, then," he comments back.  
"And don't you forget it," she replies.  
This is how they say 'I love you,' to each other.   
Dean hangs up. Reads over his notes again, paying attention to what he highlighted and what he underlined. Slides his shoes on.   
Another alarm goes off.  
He checks his phone.   
A text message, from Missouri.  
Eat breakfast, with the time and the date attached to it. He nods.   
Takes his notebook, his phone, and his pocketknife and heads out to the diner, the one he took a picture of last night, that he's pretty sure is right around the corner and had a killer patty-melt.  
See, it's not that Dean forgets (and he does that, too), it's that he misplaces what he remembers. He'll remember he's in a coffee shop, but he'll misplace what he ordered, and order the same thing four times in ten minutes. It's not that he can't remember he's out of town, it's that he can't remember he got a room already.   
It's not that he can't remember the patty melt, it's that he'll immediately forget everything about where he got it.  
It's not that Dean doesn't remember having a brother or a father or a mother, it's that he's misplaced their names and faces.  
It's better than it used to be, and what doesn't get better, he's augmenting with his notebook and phone. And the medication and therapy and hell, just Missouri, help enormously. And honestly, he'll be fine. He's doing great.  
He shuts his door and stands in the hallway for a hot minute.  
Looks at his phone.  
"Breakfast," he murmurs. "Gonna eat breakfast."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Thanks flynn!)  
> (Sorry is short; more soon)


End file.
